Jekyll Island
by Rach3
Summary: A weekend getaway for Syd turns into something more....**Ch 3 -- Final Chapter -- Added**
1. Fuses

Spoilers: Just one line from "Page 47"  
AN: I had to upload this again, there was a small mistake in the HTML that needed fixing. Thanks to Kat for being a beta who doesn't miss a thing. Her additions (and suggestions) have been invaluable! This story came to me as I listened to the "A Life Less Ordinary" soundtrack. I'm sure you diehard Ewan fans have seen the film; the soundtrack is just amazing. The song that inspired this is "Don't Leave" by Faithless. Comments are always welcome.   
  
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Jekyll Island  
Chapter One: Fuses  
by Rach  
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_Gunshots. Screams. Fingernails clawing at splintered wood. The echo of heavy, but fast footsteps in a long, white hallway. Running. Blood, always blood._

She doesn't gasp for air as she wakes; these images are not new, nor as disturbing as they once were. She is calm, although her heart is beating faster than it should be. Her mind is blank for a few seconds as she slows her breathing and stretches, her bare body rubbing against the cotton sheet.

The first thought is that she's safe. The second, after inhaling a familiar scent, is that he must've burned the coffee again.

She rolls onto her side, her eyes struggling to open. Her hand, imprinted with the wrinkles of four-star hotel sheets, instinctively moves to block the brightness. After a few brief moments, she lets her arm flop back down to the soft mattress with a cushioned thud. Through squinted eyes and mussed tendrils of hair, all she sees is his familiar form silhouetted in the mid-morning sunlight, arms folded, in front of the window. The window with the gauzy white tab-top curtains. The curtains that still remind her of dressing a wound.

She remembers seeing the curtains whip in the late summer breeze last night when they returned, laughing, his hand on the small of her back. She could feel his warmth through the white linen dress, damp with her sweat. "I must've forgottento close the window," he said in between heated kisses. Her giggle morphed into a gasp as his hands met the zipper of her dress, brushing the nape of her neck. "Don't care," a whispered reply in his ear. Her hands cupped his face, feeling his strong, angular jawline with her lean fingers. Their eyes met and their smiles melted as a silent acknowledgment occurred. This was something they both wanted. 

"I've always wanted you, Sydney," he said. His voice was rough with emotion and need. Her hands moved to the back of his head, digging into his hair, sliding on the perspiration of his scalp, to bring his lips to hers. The words "I know" were smothered by their kiss. No more words were needed as hands and lips roamed freely, desperately. It wasn't awkward, it wasn't planned, it just happened, as natural as the night's southern Georgia humidity. 

As they moved to the king-sized bed, littered with pillows, her mind was concentrating only on the next moment, the next caress, the next article of clothing to be discarded. And slowly, things began falling from her consciousness. A smell, a taste, a sound - they all blurred and faded until all that was left was a lyric she had heard once on the college radio station.

_His fingers were fuses._

"Don't leave." Her voice is hoarse, but she doesn't bother clearing her throat. She can still taste him on her tongue.

"Hey," he says quietly, as if he is still in danger of waking her. With one smooth movement, he's there, sitting on the bed. "How'd you sleep?" 

Now that he's out of the sunlight, she can see him properly. The white linen shirt and khaki shorts are a good choice for what seems like another steamy day. Just as she's about to ask if he forgot to turn on the air conditioning, his smile catches her off-guard. Nice gleaming teeth, full lips. She's always thought he had a nice smile, but now.now everything is different. A new, raw process of discovering the contours of his body, the curve of his lips, the silky feel of his tongue. 

"Mmmmm," she breathes, her dimples deepening as she grins. "I think I slept for twenty hours."

"Actually," he replies, turning the clock to face her. "You only _slept_ five." He shoots her a rakish grin. 

"Ohhh, you stud," she says jokingly, leaning toward him. 

"I would say the same about you, exceptI don't know what the female version of stud is" Their proximity keeps him from laughing. She observes him observing her. "You're beautiful."

"That's the phrase used to describe a female stud?"

He grabs a fluffy pillow from the pile on the floor and taps it gently on her forehead. "You still can't accept a compliment," he laughs.

The smile leaves her face briefly as she recalls the only compliment that ever made her blush.

_"You look really pretty." _

It was ages ago, but the moment will forever be etched in her memory. Michael Vaughn. The name that used to rest on her lips each night before drifting off to sleep. The man who had saved her life on many occasions. The man who risked his life too often in order to keep her safe. 

She briefly wonders what could've been. 

"Hey, Syd?" She's brought back to reality.

"Huh?" She's grinning again, pushing thoughts of the past aside. 

"You don'tfeel weird about last night, do you?"

He's concerned. Of course he is.

"No, no." she attempts to straighten her messy hair. "Do you?"

Brushing the stray strands out of her face, his eyes burn into hers. "Are you kidding? God, it was - you are.amazing. I mean, there are no words." His hand is now stroking her cheek.

Desire is stirring. Sitting up slightly, she halfheartedly attempts to adjust the lightweight sheet that partially covers her naked body. She bridges the scant gap between their faces, gently taking his lower lip between hers. 

He pulls away slightly when he feels her smile. "What?"

His eyes are this ethereal, shocking blue. She's never seen them so bright. Or just maybe she's never paid them enough attention before now.

"I was just thinking that for being a writer, you're having quite a difficult time with words this morning, Will."

He brushes his lips over hers roughly in response. His stubble grazes her face, leaving a sensual stinging in its wake. God, she wants more of him. So much more than she ever thought possible. If she lets it, the void will be filled. She will be normal. And one day she'll forgetthe wounds will heal.and eventually the scars will fade and disappear.

"You knowcheck-out is at 11," he breathes in her ear.

"Mmmmhmmmm," she replies, longing to touch him. Physical intimacy is something she's not used to, it having been so long since she felt this way. And even though her feelings for Will mirror those she had for the last man she slept with, they lack the magnitude. Because he's not Vaughn. "I don't care."

"Um, yeahI don't either," he laughs, a smile tugging his lips upward. 

What a sweet smile. The smile of a person who doesn't have to lie every day. 

"Should we stay here another day?" he asks, almost absentmindedly, his fingers toying with the sheet. She is aching for his touch. "Do you think this heat will let up?"

Fitting. 

"I don't know, Will." She lets him push the sheet off her torso. "I'm not good at predicting those kind of things."

*********  
AN: Patience, my dear friends. In the next part(s), we'll find out how Will and Syd made it to this point, I promise. Oh, yeah, and what happened with Vaughn. "His fingers were fuses" is a reference to Beth Orton's "Stolen Car" - the actual lyric is "Your fingers like fuses, Your eyes were cinnamon." Love that song. Jekyll Island, a barrier island, is located in south coastal Georgia, about an hour north of Jacksonville, Fla. 

aliasrlm@yahoo.com

  



	2. Sweet Caroline

AN: Here we go again. Hope you enjoy. This chapter was as much fun to write as the first, but as always, I couldn't have done it without Kat. Thanks girl!  
Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own anything Alias. Jekyll Island is a barrier island in Georgia, bordered by the Atlantic on the east, the Intracoastal Waterway on the west. It's just an hour north of Jacksonville, Fla.

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Jekyll Island  
Chapter Two: Sweet Caroline  
by Rach  
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The ceremony was beautiful. Really, it was. Somehow, she had grown past feeling sad or guilty when attending a wedding. She didn't remember the day (or even how) it happened, but she knew that she can now make it through a wedding (even a lengthy Catholic one) without picturing Danny's pale face, the spatter of his blood on the bathroom tile, or visions of a shared life that would never be. He was gone -- just three words, but also a phrase that had gotten her through numerous heart wrenching moments, even in recent times, under different circumstances. It had been years since Danny's death -- over three, in fact. She still missed him, but also found it difficult to picture his smile, to remember his voice. She had loved since then. A love that had smoothed over the rifts of lingering shame, anger and guilt. A love that had foolishly prompted her to hope. A love that was taken away with rough abandon, still tainting her tongue with the acidic bitterness of betrayal and loss.

_Closed door. Not leaving the apartment for a week. Broken spirit, fractured heart. Shivering in the June heat, a blanket cocooning her from her cold room, from reality. Not speaking for days, not even when her father, uncharacteristically concerned, unexpectedly appears on her doorstep. An alarmed, almost frantic Francie forcing her into the shower. Demanding answers, an explanation that will never come. Because she doesn't know what it is, she doesn't know where things start and end. All she knows is a blur of an ever-turning, distorted circle. Sleep, nightmares and reruns of Three's Company. _

Will squeezed her hand. He was just trying to reassure her in his thoughtful way -- he hadn't forgotten Danny either, and was sure this wasn't easy for her. Ironically, she ended up feeling guilty because Will thought she was sadly remembering her deceased fiancé. She smiled up at him, forcing herself back into the moment. Jekyll Island. Amy's wedding. Will , in a white wooden chair, sweat dancing on his forehead, grinning like mad. Beaming with pride that his sister was actually going through with this wedding, despite her understandable fears that her soon-to-be in laws would brand her as a freak and unsuitable.

The ceremony was held outside in the late afternoon ninety-degree heat, on the grounds of the historic Jekyll Island Club, the kind of place where guests wore golf clothes and still played croquet on the green out front. 

Even the wedding guests lucky enough to have procured seats in the shade couldn't escape the humidity. It was bordering on oppressive, the sticky air making an impact on everyone and everything, as evidenced by growing circles of perspiration on clothing and the Spanish Moss that hung like damp rags from the tree branches overhead. Sydney thanked God she'd decided on a breathable linen dressand that neither Amy Tippin nor her soon-to-be husband were Catholic. 

******

"Congratulations, Amyyou look stunning." A hug passed between the two women. "Your hair looks great."

Amy Tippin flashed Sydney a wide, genuine smile. "You think?" Her fingers nervously raked through the new haircut, a modern bob. "The color is a change, isn't it? I wasn't sure I was going to like it."

"No, it's the perfect color," Sydney assured her. "Auburn suits you."

Amy beamed. "Well, the magenta was nice for a while." Her eyes wandered over the crowd until they settled on a lanky blond man. "But I just couldn't do that to John on our wedding day, especially to his family. They were a bit, well, alarmed when they first laid eyes on me."

Sydney's eyebrow raised curiously. A hand rested on her shoulder.

_Laughing. Tugging of belts and shoelaces and socks. The tingle of his hand on her shoulder and the heady anticipation that follows as she leads him into her bedroom for the first time. Fingers intertwined. An unexpected exchange of terms of endearment. No saying goodbye, not a single word precedes his dramatic exit from her life. _

It was Will's hand, swollen and reddened by the heat.

"They're very southern, very old money," His voice came from behind Sydney. His breath tickled her skin and smelled like peppermint. "I mean, they're part owners of this place, aren't they?"

"They own half of Georgia," Amy remarked in a hushed tone. "Talk about giving Ted Turner a run for his money."

A relative's voice interrupted and Amy was swept away in a wave of well-wishers.

Will shook his head, his eyes on his sister. "I just can't believe it," he said, jamming his hand in his pocket. "My sistermarried. And to this guyhe's great, don't get me wrong, but they're just so different."

"Sometimes if two people are too much alike, things are destined to not work out," Sydney heard herself saying. 

"Yeah, I guess," he responded, his eyes drifting from his sister to the bar positioned in the far corner of the reception tent. "Let's get a drink?" 

Sydney nodded with a smile, taking his offered arm. "I think a celebration is in order."

********

She couldn't pinpoint exactly when or why they crossed the line that night. 

One moment they were dancing, singing along to some Neil Diamond song (John's family had major pull with the DJ), the next she was in his arms, swaying slowly as the sun set upon the Intracoastal Waterway to the west. 

And even then, she didn't have a clue. He was just Will, she was just Sydney. They were dancing, just dancing.

"So what do you think of this place?" he whispered, his lips a little too close to her ear. "Mind-blowing how the Rockefellers and Pulitzers vacationed hereyou'd think they'd at least make camp on the other side of the island, by the beach."

She chuckled, mentally recognizing an anxious note in Will's voice. "Maybe they had a thing for swatting bugs," she replied after feeling an annoying but familiar pinch on her calf.

The conversation faded away, not really serving a solid purpose other than to fill the empty, not mildly strained silence.

She felt the muscles of his back through his damp white dress shirt. He had long since discarded his tie and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. Her head naturally rested on his chestand she felt something she hadn't experienced in months. 

Relaxation. 

No room in her mind for flashbacks of foreign places, penetrating voices and a man she had promised to forget. 

Just Sydney and Will. Just dancing. No guns, screams or tears. Normalcy.

And somehow relaxation grew into something else, something more. Something that made her tilt her head upward to see his eyes burning down on her. Something that prompted her hands to slide down his biceps, her fingertips stinging as if they were just waking from a year-long slumber, really feeling for the first time in ages.

He was looking at her, hope shining in his blue eyes. Confusion, concernand hope. 

She did the only thing she could think of doing - she smiled. A wide smile that seemed to swallow her entire face, that reminded her that she was still alive, still relatively young, and that she could still _feel_.

Her right hand grasped his left, sweeping from palm to knuckles to fingernails. They were no longer moving. 

He was still looking at her, still questions dancing in his eyes. Just like him, she had no idea what she was doing, what it all meantso she didn't answer.

Without a word, she walked off the dance floor, her hand still gripping his. The thinning crowd, well on their way past intoxication, didn't notice as they silently left the reception. 

She went to the pier. He followed.

She walked to the edge, placed her hands on the steel railing and looked down, only seeing shadows gliding over the water. 

"Syd," Will's voice punctured the silence. He was next to her, just a sideways glance away. "Is everything okay?"

_An explosion rocks a building. Flames. Heat. The telltale scent of burning flesh. Her hand muffles a scream, covers her face from debris. Gone._

Her eyes were closed. "Mmmmhmmmm," was all she could manage. The flashbacks were more than she could stand sometimes, intruders of the worst kind. Reminders of a life she was starting to think she couldn't live anymore.

"Hey." He pulled her to him carefully. "I know you."

Eyes flew open as the first breeze of the night tickled her bare legs. It was dark but she could see the details of his face. His eyebrows were pulled together in concern as he continued to look at her, to search her face for answers. 

He cared; she knew he cared. He had always cared.

"I know," she responded, not knowing what else to say. But he didn't know her. He didn't know she could hog-tie a 250-pound security guard in less than ten seconds. He didn't know she had been tortured by the enemy -- teeth yanked and body beaten (but never into submission). He didn't know the reason she had taken down all photos of her mother. He didn't know the scent of musty warehouses, ancient catacombs or an aristocratic playboy's bathroom. 

"And you're not okay, are you?"

His arms were comforting, like a warm chenille blanket. "Sometimes I'm not sure," she murmured into his shirt. 

A minute passed, maybe more. The water was relatively still, lazily lapping against the boats docked nearby. The quiet of this place was good for her. It wasn't too often her life was quiet. Her days were filled with gunshots, heels clicking on expensive marble floors, explosions, the pulsating bass in a nightclub, the roar of a plane's engine, the squeal of a car's tires. Then there were voices -- talking, explaining, evaluating, repeating, describing, demanding, ordering, questioning. Always questioning. She was exhausted by the questions. 

Now she craved quiet like how she used to crave love. First the love from her father, then from Dannyand then Vaughn. And each time it was taken awayor didn't last.

She didn't want love anymore. She wanted peace, understanding, just a single morning she can sleep in until 11, not being jarred awake by nightmares, an urgent page from Sloane or a phone call from Weiss.

"Anything I can do to help?" Will asked quietly, probably having sensed this pause would stretch into hours if he remained silent. 

Her hand grabbed his shirt, feeling the buttons dig into her fisted palm. Pulling him closer, she focused mostly on his full lips, although the back of her mind noted his startled expression. 

The kiss was soft as her parted lips met his. He exhaled as she pulled away, and her hand released his shirt, leaving a ring of wrinkles in its wake.

Debating. Was this right? Should she just stop now before he got hurtentangled further in her complicated life? 

He ended her debate after their brief moment of separation. Fingers running through her hairanother kiss. Comfort mixed with passion as she returned the kiss.

Memories were stifled by the humid air, by the sensation of being touched again.

There would be no flashbacks that night.  



	3. The Tide

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Chapter Three: The Tide

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There is no seam where the sky meets the sea. There is no distinct horizon to focus on, just a mesh of light gray and charcoal, a thick tent of clouds, the beginnings of turbulence in the Atlantic. 

There is only one scent on the coastal breeze: salt. It mixes well with the muggy air, naturally clinging on like a pesky, loveable younger brother. It teases her nostrils with the idea of clearing her mind. If only the air held more crispness, was lighter, then she might not feel as if her thoughts were being buried beneath the humidity. 

There is an overwhelming comfort in the way her toes dig into the sticky sand. She's standing on her favorite part of the beach - a narrow strip the tide recently caressed and then abandoned. The tide, so methodical (and fickle, she thinks) is moving on, moving out, leaving the grains of sand clumped together, not dry but not saturated. In limbo. It's the feel she likes the best - the feel of a place that was once loved, once blessed, once soft and stable. And with her toes she's trying to expose something, dig at a wound, reveal a hidden promise. Instead she finds a broken sand dollar and a few dirty shells. 

There is no way to pretend she's somewhere else - too many reminders (smell, touch, sound) of this island. There is no way to pretend she's someone else - too many reminders (voices, tastes, murky memories) colliding in her mind. There are no reasons to do the former anyhow - she is at home here with the squawking seagulls and the palm trees that are permanently contorted from the ocean breeze. The latter, thoughwell, there are days she wants to be anyone but Sydney Bristow. But for the moment, with a rivulet of sweat finding its way from the crook of her neck down through the valley between her breasts, she is content. 

There are no words she wants to say. Her tongue, carrying the bite of salt, probably wouldn't work properly even if she had something pressing to say. Her hands, clammy and warm, are jammed into the pockets of her shorts as she stares off into the distance, trying to find the line of the horizon. Common sense tells her it must exist, but it's elusive and almost impossible to define. She doesn't want to end her search, but she hears him approaching, appearing at the very moment the wind picks up. He's closer to the tide than she - she knows this without looking. His bare feet, in a deliberate rhythm, are smacking against the wet sand. Slap Slap. Pause. Slap Slap. His toes and heels are increasingly intimate with the type of sand that (for now) is ruled by the water, that slurps up feet, that lets a person sink ankle-deep. The unstable, cool, ultimately forgiving sand. 

"Hey," his voice is almost carried away by a sudden gust of wind. 

She doesn't look away from the place in the sky/sea continuum where the horizon should be. "Hey," she breathes, her mouth dry. The single word feels foreign on her tongue, like she's trying to pronounce a new sound. "How was your walk?"

"Nice, but I think I'm ready for a swim.what do you - what are you looking at? Is there a ship out there or something?" 

He's now standing to her right, a foot or two behind her, his wet feet having splattered drops of seawater in every direction on his brief walk up to her.

"No," she replies, peeling her eyes away from the gray sky/sea and down to her toes, covered in a hard crust of drying sand. She is briefly amazed at the clarity of her vision, with her eyes finally having something on which to focus. "There's nothing."

His hand comes in contact with the small of her back. A burning tingle is the result - she imagines his hand surrounded by a flickering neon glow, bright and bold, with the power to warm her skin. "Can you believe how fast these clouds rolled in?"

"No, it was so sunny this morning," she says, turning to face him. The first thing she sees is his hair, spiky and windblown. The second - his smile, radiant and stretched wide. How does he get his teeth so white? Is he always smiling? She remembers his expression as he touched her tenderly this morning, so intense and passionate in orange glow of the mid-morning sunlight, and she answers her own question. No.

His blue eyes are bearing down on her. She smiles, feeling genuinely happy, storing this moment away in the corner of her mind. This is what she wants to remember - not the feel of a cold metal against her skin, not the smell of gunpowder, not the taste of blood.

He bends, kissing her gently. She's not surprised when she tastes salt and tiny granules of sand on his lips. Or maybe they were from her lips.

"Mind if I ask you something?" He says after a few seconds of silence.

Yes. "Mmmm, what?" She kisses him playfully on the cheek, his facial stubble scratching her lips.

He looks like he's about to speak for a second. But instead his hands move upward to cup her face, his damp fingers moving along her sharp jawline, her prominent cheekbones. 

"God, Sydney," he whispers the moment before he kisses her again. Passionately - tongues and lips and their own brand of heat.

A minute later, she pulls away slightly so she can really look at him. She doesn't want to say it, but she does. "What did - you said you wanted to ask me something?"

"Umyeah." His eyes dart away, to the gray sea, to the distant form of a person walking down the beach, to focus on something that isn't her. He shifts his weight from one side to the other, obviously uncomfortable. "Yeah. I was sorta' worried about you this morning. You were taking to someoneyou sounded upset."

_Her CIA-issued cell phone. Ringing. She can't find it under the heap of discarded clothes, pillows and bed linens. Naked and sweaty, she finally spots it near one of the strappy sandals she wore to the wedding. "Yeah?" she pants, annoyed. It's Weiss, wanting to know when she'd be back in LA. His jokes don't alleviate her frustration. She'll be back soon is all she'll say. He gets serious, saying he'd like some specifics, please. She snaps back, irritated. Apologizes when she senses hurt in his voice. She'll be in touch tonight to let him know._

"This morning? When?" She stalls, feigning confusion.

"When I was getting out of the showeryou sounded angry, said something like you would give specifics as soon as you had a handler with an ounce of professionalism?" 

_"You'll have your specifics once I have a handler who possesses a single ounce of professionalism." _That was just about it. Add in an equally mean-spirited remark about yo-yosand that was what she said. Part of her thinks the dig about the yo-yos wounded Weiss more than the professionalism comment.

Then, a realization. Will is concerned, not jealous. He doesn't want her to hurt any more than she wants to hurt him. He wants this weekend to last forever, these smiles to stretch on until next week, next month, next year. Like Sydney, he just wants to forget about everything that exists off this island.

"Oh, that was just the bank," she laughs. "My assistant called, wanting to know when I was coming back. She annoyed me, so I snapped at her, said that thing about professionalismI shouldn't have, though."

"Handler_that's_ what you call your assistant?" She's relieved to hear amusement in his voice. He lets out a deep whistle. "That's hardcoresounds downright medieval or something." 

"It does, doesn't it? I guess it's just one of those stupid in-house terms. It's funny, I never really thought twice about it before."

She silently reprimands herself for being so careless. It must be a result of the whole emotional attachment thingbecoming careless when she develops an emotional attachment to any man, whether it be Danny, Will.or Vaughn. 

She braces herself for what will inevitably follow any mental mention of Vaughn. Flashes of memory - his lopsided, sexy grin, the creases his shoulder holster left on his crisp white shirt at the end of a long workday, the feel of his body moving slowly beneath hers.

Then, the flashes change theme. The day she walked into the warehouse to find Weiss, not Vaughn. His first words, so plain, still stick in her heart like a pin in a voodoo doll. "Wait, before you say anything. The CIA found out about you two. He's been transferredI don't know where. Sydney, I'm so sorry." The anger that pounded in her temples, pulsating, burning, making the room flash a bright, painful white. The rattle of the chain link gate as she slammed it on her way out. The tears she held in until she reached her apartment, how they stung as they rolled down her cheeks, spilled down the front of her blue dress shirt. The unanswered phone calls. The coded explanation from Weiss on the answering machine that did not suffice. No explanation would ever suffice. 

The numbness that followed. Forced smiles. The fade of the LA sunrise to muted tones, described only in terms of darks and lights. Each day lacking more vividness, more vitality. Untilshe found something that almost bordered on acceptance. She still hurt, but knew the pain would become unbearable and devastating if she took a final, stupid risk. She didn't need love - she needed to function properly, as her father reminded her. She could have love once SD-6 was gone. So like the tide, she moved on. 

"So how about that swim?" she says, biting her lip. She unbuttons his white linen shirt, her fingertips pausing on his chest after releasing the last button, feeling his taut muscles tense under her touch.

"Sounds good," he replies, giving her a long squeeze, his fingers trailing down her spine. They grasp her thin tank top and pull it over her head, revealing her navy blue bikini top. She swears his hands purposely graze the underside of her breasts, sending her heart into overdrive. His lips brush against hers once last time before he dashes into the surf, carefree and smiling.

She's amazed that she feels the same way -- light and airy -- despite the humidity, despite the worries of work weighing on her mind, despite a heavy dose of somber flashbacks. 

She catches his eye as her shorts fall to the ground in a denim blur. She knows he's in love with her - and it scares her more than she's ever imagined. But there is exhilaration in knowing she won't pull away from him - after all, he's the one who is helping her feel somewhat whole again. There is an undeniable comfort in feeling wanted, in wanting.

For now she won't pull away. For now she'll look into Will's eyes, laughing, seeing the blue horizon that has been somehow misplaced. 

For now she'll just forget about what waits in the distance, about the elusive seam where the sky meets the sea.

******

  
AN: That's it for this baby. I still have some ideas dancing 'round my brain..."nasty" ones as Kat (the most wonderful beta) said. Maybe I'll pick up where this left off one day....hope you enjoyed it. :)


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